


A Warning

by nicpic



Series: Partners [3]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Mild Language, POV Kim Kitsuragi, all my fics could be slash, could be slash, jean is just sad and angry, just two bros smoking on a balcony, there is no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26583304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicpic/pseuds/nicpic
Summary: You silently pull out your lighter again and flick it open, illuminating his face. The dancing light of the flame deepens the creases surrounding his eyes and mouth. The Satellite-Officer looks especially weary, though you are not sure if that is customary of him.Vicquemare leans into your waiting hand — you smell alcohol heavy on his breath — and lights his cigarette. He slowly rests his elbows on the precarious railing surrounding the both of you. You bring the lighter to your face, then inhale.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois & Kim Kitsuragi, Kim Kitsuragi & Jean Vicquemare, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Partners [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927078
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	A Warning

**Author's Note:**

> this one takes place before part two... so thats a bit confusing. might have to change the order on these fics :(

Welcome party aside, your transferral into Precinct 41 was without much fuss, negotiated well by Captain Pryce and the 57th. You took the place of Satellite-Officer Vicquemare as Harry’s partner, and in a few days, you two will be assigned your first case as a real, official detective duo. You smile as you bring out your one cigarette for the day, Revachol glimmering warmly beneath the metal balcony you have perched yourself on. It is quiet and slightly windy, but this nook you have found is sheltered from the wind. It is a perfect spot to smoke. 

Your wrist watch reads 19:09. You should head home soon.

Just as you take out your lighter, the door behind you squeals open. You turn. Standing frozen, framed in the warm yellow glow of the light behind him, is Jean Vicquemare, face cast in shadow. You stare at each other.

“Hello, Officer Vicquemare.” You begin the motions of putting away your lighter. “I apologize. I shall find another place to-”

“No, no.” Vicquemare steps onto the creaking metal, shutting the door behind him. “I needed a light anyways. Left mine at my desk.” The officer does not even check his pockets for his lighter. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes out of his RCM issued coat and places one in his mouth. His voice sounds especially rough today.

You silently pull out your lighter again and flick it open, illuminating his face. The dancing light of the flame deepens the creases surrounding his eyes and mouth. The Satellite-Officer looks especially weary, though you are not sure if that is customary of him. 

Vicquemare leans into your waiting hand — you smell alcohol heavy on his breath — and lights his cigarette. He slowly rests his elbows on the precarious railing surrounding the both of you. You bring the lighter to your face, then inhale.

“So,” he says, smoke whispering off the corners of his lips, the clink of your lighter returning to your pocket. “You are now part of the 41st, star of the RCM. Congratulations.” He does not sound celebratory.

You lean on the railing besides him, body positioned just so, angled away from the man beside you. You take a drag of your cigarette, then watch as the smoke obscures the night sky. “I look forward to working with Harry.” You wince at your own wording.

He remains silent, choosing instead to stare in the distance, cigarette clenched between two fingers. “You shouldn’t,” he finally says. You let out a breath. “The shitkid is a fuckin’ piece of work. Her Innocence herself couldn’t fix him.” He taps his cigarette, and the ash falls like snow off the side of the balcony.

Before you can comment, he continues. “Harry and I met in the RCM. I was a patrol officer and he was a Sergeant. He was ten years my senior, and was already rapidly rising in the ranks. We worked on several cases together, and Pryce thought we were fuckin’ ‘compatible,’ whatever that means.” He angrily takes a drag. “We were officially partners within a year. Now it’s been goddamn eight.”

“Officer…”

He ignores you. Smoke boils like magma around his face. He chuckles darkly. “Within those eight years, we’ve dragged each other from the brink of death more times we can count. We knew each other like the back of our goddamn hands. We  _ knew  _ we were good and we were  _ unstoppable _ .” He laughs. “Within those eight  _ fucking _ years, I’ve been diagnosed with clinical depression, been told to ‘fuck off’ constantly, then scrape what’s left of him off the pavement knowing he’ll do it again. And  _ now _ , he has pulled the ultimate finishing act.” His shoulders are so tense that they look like they’re about to snap. “The shitkid’s forgotten  _ everything _ . And now  _ you’re  _ here.”

You stare in silence at the man seething beside you, his eyes resolutely fixed on the city below. You do not know what to do. Your pose against the railing seems awkward now.

“Dolores fucking Dei.” All of the sudden, he sags against the railing, tension dissipating like drops off of down feathers. He drags a hand across his weary face. He looks much, much older than 34. “Lieutenant,” he takes a tired drag. “That bastard that you’re ‘looking forward to working with’ is an eternally combusting pile of shit that rivals the goddamn pale in how quickly he can break the people around him.” He glances at you, expecting an answer. You nod. You get his warning.

“Yet, you are still here, officer.” You surprise yourself with your forwardness. Perhaps Harry is rubbing off on you. He grunts in assent and turns away.

“Yes I am, Kitsuragi. And what does that fucking say about me.” He stubs his cigarette against the railing with more force than necessary, then straightens up. He pulls out a metal flask of medium size, a popular type among police officers, and downs it all in one go. You hope the alcohol within was not particularly strong. “Fuck. I guess I’m walking home tonight.” He stumbles towards the door, fumbling several times before grasping the doorknob. He looks at you. “Enjoy your cigarette, Lieutenant. I’ve learned to seize small pleasures, when I can.” Before you can reply, the door slams shut behind him, leaving you alone, in the dark.

You look at your cigarette. It is nearly burned down to your fingers. A shame. You only took 4 drags. You bring it to your lips, inhale one last time, deeply, then ground the stub beneath your boot. You finally relax your hands. They begin to tremble.

You stay long enough out on the balcony to watch a certain man stagger out of a repurposed saw-mill, and you continue your vigil until his form finally melds into the city below, indistinct from all the other points of light and color littering the landscape beneath your feet.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments and kudos are appreciated :)


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